My Brother
by Bennysbatch
Summary: Myra abandoned her brothers. She was surprised to find an invite to Sherlock's funeral in her mail. Nonetheless, she went. [Thanks so much for reading. Reviews greatly appreciated!]
1. Chapter 1

Wind whipped my blond hair around my face and rain pelted down like bullets, leaving my cheeks red and wet. Everyone was staring and it made me nervous. I hadn't exactly thought of a speech. Funerals were not my forte. I sit there like a block and become a shoulder to cry on. Speaking at one was not exactly on my bucket list.

"My brother was a great man. A good man. He was…" I paused in the middle of my sentence and looked down at my cold, pale hands. Not because I was emotional – though it may be perceived as so – but because I had nothing else to say.

I knew nothing of my brothers. I left my twin and our younger sibling as soon as I was able and made a life for myself in America. I worked hard to remain quiet and under the radar for a long while until I decided that I could use my exquisite observation skills for good. I became a detective, naturally. Once I joined homicide it wasn't long before my twin brother found me. He did work for the British government and he had unlimited resources. My other brother, though, made no attempt to contact me. I read in many papers and emails from my twin that he was doing well, working like I did and actually had a friend.

After that I heard little to nothing, then one day I actually received a call from a blocked number saying that my younger sibling was dead; he had killed himself. At first, I knew it couldn't be true. Sherlock was just too proud. Then I remembered the clippings I'd read. Eventually the press would turn and they did. Anyone can be driven into madness and he was fragile.

Sherlock was fragile. Despite his portrayal of strength and confidence, my brother's weakness was that he was weak. His problem was that he relied entirely on his mind.

"A brilliant man and he helped so many people. He will be so missed," I ended swiftly, giving one last look before I turned away and stepped down the few stairs away from the rose-decorated podium. That I knew. There was no one here who doubted Sherlock, I knew. I would have seen the scowls; the faces that crinkled in disbelief and even occasionally anger. There were many people, I'd heard, that showed to Mrs. Hudson's apartment at 221A demanding money back from Sherlock's consultations. This usually ended in screaming and then crying.

As I moved to leave the room, everyone was moving about then. The service had ended on my terrible and meaningless note. I was so wrapped up in how disgusted I was in myself that I barely noticed the male I ran into. I didn't bother to say anything as I moved on. He called my name and I twisted, looking directly into the eyes of none other than John Watson.


	2. Chapter 2

I can't help but to stare. Despite how strong he appears, standing tall in his black suit and purple tie, I can see the dark devastation swirling in his blue-green eyes. This paired with how he's smiling at me like I'm some sort of hero makes my chest hurt. I opt to sit. There are two chairs in the hallway, across from each other. He waits for people to pass before he speaks.

"So, you're…" He pauses, as if it is hard to utter his name, "…Sherlock's sister." I nod in reply and he nods to himself. Lestrade passes and offers his condolences to John and me, nodding his head to me before leaving as a sort of cop-to-cop respect thing. I returned it, but my attention was immediately turned back to John.

"He never mentioned a sister, let alone Mycroft's twin," He was still smiling and I wondered how he could do it. I was having gut-wrenching pains and I didn't even experience half the hardship he did. I licked my lips. He was in the military. He must be used to death. He must be used to funerals.

"I was never around. I left when Sherlock was eleven. I studied abroad and ended up staying," I replied.

"Ah, good old America, ey?" He asked and I nodded. Mycroft had made his way through the throng of people and stood in the middle of the hall a few feat away from us. We both turned our heads to look up at his tall figure to his empty face. It held no emotion save seriousness. Mycroft was always quite serious; even as a child.

"Yes. Mother never _was_ too happy about that," He said, lifting his head a little bit. His hands were shoved into the deep pockets of his suit pants and he was looking back and forth between John and I.

"But was she ever happy about anything?" I muttered, shaking my head. This wasn't a time for family feuds. John looked perplexed and I gave him a questioning look. He sat back in his chair and voiced what was bothering him.

"You're blond," He said, taking me by surprise. I actually chuckle a small, painful chuckle. Mycroft, however is unamused.

"Hairdye, John. She worked _very_ hard to hide from me. I am quite good at finding people. Naturally she would be a dark ginger color," He said with a little smirk. I rolled my eyes at him and blinked a few times. I actually had missed my brothers. My parents I dealt with being away from, but my brothers were my heart and soul and it had killed me every day, week, month, and year to be so far from them; especially my twin.

"I was always the mix child. Sherlock got dark, Mycroft ginger, and I both. Sherlock the heightened intelligence, Mycroft the secrecy and so on..." John laughed a little bit. I actually felt better now that the mood was lightened. Being with the two of them made this day much more bearable.

"That's fantastic. I can definitely tell you and Mycroft are twins." We looked at each other, Mycroft and I, and he actually gave me a small, soft smile. It was completely out of character, but I was pretty sure it happened. I don't hallucinate often.

"Where will you be staying?" Mycroft asks me, now back to his sort of stoic, emotionless look. He's leaning on his umbrella, which I smile at. He's always had an umbrella.

"Um, my flights not for another two days. Which reminds me I need to call an inn or something, though I'm not sure how I'll afford two nights hotel fee. Cop's salary, yeah?" I joked, but this was an expensive trip. It had cost me this month's pay just to get here and it'll take another two weeks to pay off the uncomfortable bed I'll probably sleep in.

"Well-" Mycroft begins, but John cuts him off.

"You can stay in our-I mean my flat." I've heard lately he's had a little trouble keeping up with rent, but Mrs. Hudson has let him go because she loves the boy like he's her son.

"I couldn't, I mean..."I start, but John's hand goes into the air, flat and commanding.

"I insist. There's an empty bedroom and a whole empty flat when I'm at the clinic." I open my mouth to refuse, but his argument is convincing.

"Alright, then. My things are in the back room. I've rented a car if you would like me to drive us over there." He shakes his head and I'm a little confused.

"I'll take a taxi and meet you there, yeah?" I blink and nod slowly. He's got a strange sort of postpartum depression thing setting in, yet no one has attempted to pull him out of his hole. I stand and so does he. Mycroft and he exchange a look before they both set off into the rain, leaving me alone with myself. I run to the back room and grab my black suitcase and laptop messenger and then exit out the back door. The rain is coming down hard, but I don't mind. It actually feels good to be soaked and cold, for some off reason. A I get into the car, I throw my things in the back and sit there for a minute. Tomorrow, we bury him...


	3. Chapter 3

I had barely knocked before the door was pulled open under my hand. John must have been awaiting my arrival. He's smiling under his scraggly mustache and has changed into a simple jumper and jeans. I looked at him with a brow raised as he motioned for me to enter. I obliged and dragged my suitcase in behind me. I stopped when the door thudded closed, surveying my surroundings. The flat was trashed. Now when I say trashed, I do not mean someone had been rummaging about it looking for something, I mean that things were strewn everywhere so that there was little livable space. John is holding a broom,which led me to assume he was ashamed of his living conditions and has attempted to clean for my arrival. I licked my lips and turned to him.

"Can I make you some tea?" He inquires before I can even think of speaking. I nodded. Though I have been in America for many years, I am still a Brit. I still take my tea at tea-time and my accent has still not gone although my accent has greatly lessened over time. He rushed into the kitchen to prepare the tea and I watch from afar. It takes him a moment to get the cups because he likely has not used more than one in a while. Once he retrieves the second cup, he washed it- even though it was in the dish strainer. I slowly made my way to the kitchen threshold and from a closer viewpoint I saw that all of the dishes in the strainer were dusty and had been sitting there for ages. This meant he either does not eat at home, orders in often, or does not eat at all. I did not even want to think of it being the latter. it is the kettle emitted a whining noise and John went after it, pouring two cups. I took mine and added a small amount of sugar before drinking.

"Um, so you can stay in S- the other room. It's got pretty much everything you'll need. I'll clean out the drawers if you want," John said to me, making it out like I was going to be staying a while. He almost seemed desperate for my company. I shifted in my seat, a little bit uncomfortable and equally as sorry for him. I knew what it was like to lose people. In my line of work people die every day. I'm just exceptionally good at letting those emotions go. It must be in my blood.

"Oh no, that won't be necessary, I'm not staying very long," My reply is short and curt. He needs to know I am not going to be his emotional outlet. I'm here until- god, I am a terrible human. I sound like such a machine. It's just so much easier when you don't get attached, no matter how sad the eyes or convincing the story.

"Alright, well it's right over there," He said, almost disappointed-looking, and pointed to a door a little ways away. I finished my tea and stood, leaving the kitchen. On the way to the bedroom, I grabbed my suitcase and it rolled behind me. The door was open a crack and I pushed it lightly to reveal the dark room. It was surprisingly clean and the sheets had been removed and new ones were folded on the mattress. It had been lived in, I could tell, from the lack of dust in the room like in the kitchen. Someone had been sleeping in here, probably John. I would bet money that his room had not been touched since Sherlock's fall.

It was now dark and rain still fell heavy against the windows of the little flat. I made my bed swiftly and sat on it, unpacking my phone charger and plugging it in. I found something that surprised me under the bedside table. A bottle; an alcohol bottle. I bit my lip and laid in my bed, staring at the ceiling. John did not give me a 'drinker' feel. I hoped to God he hadn't developed any alcoholic habits in Sherlock's absence. Soon, after I made sure my mind no longer wandered, I fell into a deep sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

When I woke up, John had already left to the surgery. I knew this because of a note he had slipped under the door. After reading it I left the small piece of paper on the beside table and slipped on my robe. I looked around the dark room, deciding to move over to the window and spread open the curtains. A fine layer of dust flew off of them and I sighed. Sure sign of someone who often has hang-overs; never wanting the light to come in in the morning and start up that lovely migraine they would soon be experiencing.

I looked outside and saw a car parked in front of the flat. The tinted windows intrigued me a bit, but I made myself let it go and head out to the kitchen for a cuppa and some toast. Luckily I had thought to put a robe on - seeing as I sleep nearly in the nude - because none other than Mycroft Holmes is waiting for me at the kitchen table, a cup already in his hand. Mrs. Hudson is with him and when she sees me she smiled and leaves, patting me on the arm on her way out. I return this smiling gesture and then go to sit with my brother, pouring my own cup before I spoke.

"Good morning, Mycroft," I said, sipping and looking at him over my cup. I leaned back, satisfied with the warm liquid, and wrinkled my nose. He smelled like rain. It was raining earlier, I remember waking up to the pitter-patter against the window.

"Stay," He said. This took me by surprise. If anything, Mycroft would find a way to make me stay, not ask. For him to do this was hard. He didn't do emotions much. I felt obliged to do just as he asked. As twins, we were without a doubt drawn to each other and when we were apart it was like ripping our souls apart. I shook my head sadly.

"I can't and you know that," I replied quietly. There was a lump in my throat that threatened to have me in tears, but I swallowed it faster than it could grown and took a deep breath. Mycroft just looked down.

"I can _protect_ you, Myra." He made a good point, but I thought of something.

"Like you protected Sherlock?" I said. It was a low hit and I regretted saying it the very second it hit my lips. It was too late and now I had to watch my twin's already pale face drain of it's colour and all of the guilt and sadness wash over his features. Everyone blamed him and he knew it. He felt it and it killed him inside; I could feel it.

"I'm so sorry, I-" I began but he put a hand up to stop my apologetic flow of words. I stared as he stood, collected his umbrella, and brushed off his suit.

"Fine, _leave. _Return to your solitary life in your silly apartment in your silly country," With that he turned on his heel and left me to hate myself.


	5. Chapter 5

When I was sure my brother had been driven away, I stood and looked out the window at the nearly empty street. A young couple held hands as they crossed the road, heading to the little shop downstairs for a bite to eat. I moved away from the window and stepped around a pile of unused books in the middle of the floor to get back to the kitchen. I washed the cups from the morning tea, sighing as I held Mycroft's. I had not meant to hurt him, but in that sense I was like Sherlock. I had a very small filter that did me little good. It was what made me such a good cop. I was authoritative and always let people know what was going on and usually, they were able to get things done with my ideas and input. Also, he needed to know it was unsafe for me to stay.

When I had dried and put away the cups, I looked at the sad strainer of dusty dishes and I couldn't help but wash and dry them too. After that, everything just unraveled. I ended up leaving the kitchen spotless and moving into the living room and tidying there. Books went back to bookshelves and papers in the desk. When everything was all put away, I was still unsatisfied with the room and I brought out the broom that John had left by the door and put it to good use sweeping up the dust and dirt on the floor. Once that was done, I simply dusted the room and then sat in one of the big armchairs and turned on the telly. There wasn't much on, so I shut it off and took a book from the shelf beside me. I didn't much care what it was about, but it would help quench my boredom. Several chapters and hours later, I made myself some dinner. I didn't know if John would be home for it, so I left his meal in the refrigerator. I watched a movie on my laptop at the desk and then settled into the comfy chair once more for some reading. My eyes drifted to sleep not long later and I got a few hours sleep until a tinkering noise was made. I shot up, on the seats edge, and stared toward the door. Someone was having great difficulty unlocking it. What if it was an intruder? I didn't have my firearm. John has keys; he would be having this much trouble...he lives here.

"_Damn door_!" A voice shouted, the words slow and muffled behind the door. I went to it slowly and peered through the peek-hole. It was John after all. I opened the door and he came crashing forward onto me.

"Sorry," He said, with a little hiccup. He rolled over and off of me and attempted to get up. He ended up crawling toward the kitchen and looking around.

"Where are all the dishes," He muttered, reaching up to the cabinet where I put them. Unfortunately, the cup he was grabbing fell and smashed against the counter. After watching his pitiful display of trying to pick the pieces up and cutting himself, I moved in to help. I'd dealt with drunk people before, but I wasn't sure if John is a happy or angry drunk and I didn't want to piss him off if he was the latter. He shook his head and moved to take the glass from me, which I had cradled in my palms.

"I can _do it_," He said. He was determined and in his little fit he took a piece from my hands and as he pulled it back to his body he scraped it accidentally against my arm, leaving a cut that soon leaked my red blood. His eyes shot open wide and he dropped the glass.

"I'm so-" I dismissed him and put the remaining glass in the trash before grabbing his stumbling figure and basically dragging him into his bedroom. I shut the curtains and helped him take his jacket and trousers off before he crawled into bed like a small child. I made sure he was not on his back before leaving his bedroom and returning to the kitchen to clean up the bloody glass mess. When I was sure there were no pieces left, I went to the bathroom. In there I found what I could to bandage my arm and then I took some to John. I had left the door open and a muffled sobbing sound could be heard from inside the room. John was crying; oh god, I couldn't handle this. He was crying and had no one to talk to about it. I walked in slowly and sat on the edge of the bed. He didn't look at me, but I took his hand and wrapped it to stop the bleeding. Tomorrow he could fix himself. I held his rough hand in mine a good moment before kissing it and putting it on the bed. After that, I left the room to go to mine and crawled into it. There was one more day left for me here. I couldn't get attached to anyone here, yet I was. I was already feeling at home and that was dangerous.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning there was no note. John left quietly to the surgery almost without a sound. I didn't get much sleep that night, so I laid in bed much longer than I should have. When I finally did get up, it was already eleven o'clock. My sleeping schedule was way out of whack. I threw on my robe and opened the curtains. It was surprisingly not raining, though I guessed it would in the afternoon. When I was satisfied it would not rain the second I moved away from the window, I clothed myself in simple jeans and a sleeveless purple, satiny, almost sheer button-up top. I had to be careful because the cut on my arm was still tender. I threw on my last pair of socks and then slipped on my boots before tying them. I pulled an umbrella out of my suitcase and then left the room. The umbrella had been a gift from Mycroft when we were younger before I left. I had told him I was leaving, just not where. He knew there was nothing he could do about it and he gave me his umbrella as a send-off, wishing me luck.

I needed to leave. I couldn't be cooped up that flat and longer. I locked the door behind me and prayed either John or Mrs. Hudson would be home when I returned. As I made my way down the stairs, I heard Mrs. Hudson getting off the phone. When I'd reached the bottom, she waved me over. She looked curiously at my arm and I shrugged. She made a 'tsk'ing noise and gestured me into her apartment, claiming it would only take a moment.

"I assume you now know what a bar-hopping little rabbit John has become?" I blinked. Of course she knew. She did live right below u- him. I caught myself. I needed to fight my instinct to stay. I don't live there and I won't live there. I thought maybe if I kept telling myself that, this feeling would go away. it was doing me little good.

"Um, yes," I replied. There wasn't much to say. Mrs. Hudson rambled a bit about how lonely he was an dhow terrible she felt over a cup of tea. I drank and listened, but did not hear. I knew how John was feeling. Lonely, useless, unloved. I finished my tea swiftly and told Mrs. Hudson I had to go. Then I did just that.

My phone beeped, signaling I had an email. I opened and check it as I walked out of 221A and onto the sidewalk of Baker Street. I knew my way around just fine and with luck I wouldn't bump into anyone who knew me. Thankfully, no one would recognize me with my blond hair...and especially after all these years. A man on the side of the street selling flowers' eyes followed me when I crossed to avoid him and went into a restaurant. I inhaled the sharp scent of garlic; an Italian restaurant. It was about lunch time now and I had yet to eat. I ordered a glass of water while I perused the menu.

There was suddenly a small commotion. A sort of security guard at the front of the restaurant was trying to keep a man - the one selling flowers - from coming in. Somehow, he managed the get past him and went straight towards me like I was some sort of holy mission. He stopped at my table and offered me a handful of roses. I shook my head and held up my hand to say no, but he laid them on the table. A few of the heads had fallen off, but the roses were beautiful, nothing like the dead ones he had in his buckets for sale. They were blood red, with sharp thorns.

"From a secret admirer," He said, and I blinked. I was more alarmed than surprised. I was aware I was attractive, but who could this person be and why had this man been willing to be arrested just to give me a bouquet of flowers? Nothing seemed right about this situation. My water had come during the commotion and some waiters and waitresses were staring and talking along with half the restaurant. I took the flowers and left. I had just arrived at 221B when I noticed my hands were clenching the roses and now were bleeding. I opened the door and closed it behind me and spent no time going up the stairs. To my surprise, I was not alone in the flat. Mycroft and John were conversing. I had paused in the doorway of the kitchen and John looked me over. Mycroft however, ignored me. I dropped the flowers on the floor and little blood drops splattered onto the floor. I pointed at John.

"Was this you?" I demanded. I ignored the throbbing in my hand. I needed to find out where they had come from. I was sniffling now, a few tears had escaped.

"It's not funny. I can't. I-I just can't." I went off then to the bathroom to see what I could do, which was, what I found out when I arrive there, nothing. John had run after me and took my hand. He washed it out while I sat on the tub and stared red-eyed and blank at the floor.

"It wasn't me," He promised, pulling a bandage around my hand. Now we matched. It seemed that he had changed his earlier because there wasn't any blood on his, while as soon as he had put mine on it bled through. He layered it until it stopped and I stared at him.

"I'm sorry about last night," He said lowly. I shrugged but he shook his head.

"I'm a complete jerk. You should not have had to deal with that," He put a hand on her arm to try to comfort her, but she flinched. That was when he noticed her arm had been cut.

"Was that me?" He'd asked and I nodded my head almost guiltily, like a little puppy. He cursed under his breath.

"I'm so sorry." He took my hand and led me out of the bathroom and back to the kitchen. Mycroft had picked up the flowers and deposited them in the trash, but my blood still stained the linoleum. We three didn't speak at the kitchen table for a long while.

"You've gotten roses before," Mycroft said sourly as he looked over the newspaper. My brow rose and I crossed my arms, unable to remember that.

"When we were seventeen." At first I still did not remember, but then it had hit me. The reason for me leaving was because I had to escape from someone. Someone who wanted me. Someone who gave me a bouquet of roses the day he kidnapped me.


	7. Chapter 7

John's face went pale. Mycroft was still reading the newspaper and hadn't looked up from it since he'd spoken.

"I knew it," I said, rushing away from them to the room I inhabited. John followed, confused still. I was throwing things into my suitcase when John grabbed my arm. I turned, eyes frantic and wide, and glared at him.

"What are you doing?" He asked, a concerned and frankly frightened look on his face. I pulled away from his grip and went back to my swift packing.

"What are _you_ doing?" I muttered back as he grabbed both of my arms, pulling me to his chest. He didn't understand. I had to get out. The man of my nightmares knew I was there and he let me know it. I attempted to break away from him and despite my training he was still stronger. I gave up and let myself relax against him. I focused on the rising and falling of John's chest until my heart rate had dropped back to normal. I looked up at him and he let me go and stepped away.

"Thank you," I said quietly, with a sort of hoarse voice. My red and swollen eyes had dried and were going back to normal. Now all I wanted was to crawl into bed and go to sleep. We looked at each other and John opened his mouth to speak when a knock sounded at the door. We both looked over to see Inspector Lestrade looking into the room at us.

"Hello," He said, looking between the two and resting his attention on me. I turn to face him.

"Come in," I said with a sigh. Mycroft must have called him. This was now an open case again. He moved closer and switched on the light in the room.

"Thank you. I understand that you have a problem," He said this because he knew. He was being sensitive; didn't want to force me to talk about it. I nodded and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Yes, a dangerous ghost from my past has returned to haunt me," I replied in return. A dangerous ghost indeed.


	8. Chapter 8

"I see. If you'd come to the Yard so we can talk about it?" He inquired. I would. I had to. Also, though, I needed to leave the country. My flight was early, the plan would take off in a few short hours to take me back home, away from the maniac. John nodded to me and I looked up at Lestrade.

"Yes. I'll drive behind you," I did not long for the awkward silence that would ensue if the DI himself drove me. I feared more the side questions. Anyone with eyes could see the slightly obvious affections John and I were experiencing. I was able to sneak a glance at him, only to see he was in fact looking at me. I looked away and walked to the bathroom to fix myself up.

"Alright, I'll meet you there," I said. Lestrade took the hint and left us alone. I heard the front door shut and as I exited the bathroom, I watched out the window to see Mycroft and Lestrade conversing outside. One looked up to me, then the other, and I moved away. I shut the curtains behind me and went to exit the room. John followed me to the door and when I turned he spoke before I could.

"I'm coming with you," He said, but I shook my head. I was exhausted and must have looked terribly so. I put a hand on his chest.

"I can do this," I said to him. He wouldn't listen to me. He opened the door and gestured me out. I did so and he followed, locking the flat behind him. As we went down the stairs, all that was heard was the difference between the thudding of John's boots and the tapping of my flats echoing through the hallway. Mrs. Hudson was at the end of the stairs, at first wearing a smile. When she saw the solemn two of us swiftly making our way done the stairs, that gentle old smile disappeared and she turned out of our way with a frown and watched us go. The air outside gave me a little peace. Inside I had been stifling. In America, I spent as much time outside as I could. Before I had moved, I was shut inside. No one was to see me or visit me. I could not go to school, work, or even the store. This was why I had to do what I did. I could not live as a person shut up all her life. I had to be strong and push on away from my dangers. They were all convinced that the man who had done the terrible things to me had been killed in the fire I set. They told me his bones lay there among the ash. I did not believe it; I could not. He swore to me before I found my way out that he would find me and he would make me pay.

The sound of someone laying on their horn and the feeling of someone touching me took me out of my deep dark thoughts. We were sitting at a green light and the folks behind me were clearly unhappy we had not gone yet. John's hand was on my arm and he moved it once I looked to him. I pressed on the gas and we moved on toward the Yard.

"Are you alright?" He asked. I did not answer. It really was a question that did not warrant an answer and both he and I knew it. I wasn't alright. I didn't think I would ever be alright again, but then for some reason I was glad John had come. I wondered if I would have been able to even make it to the Yard if John had not been there as a reminder that someone cared for me. When we pulled up, I shut off the engine, undid my seat belt, and just sat there staring into the steering wheel. John did not move or speak, just let me drown in my thoughts, a sentiment I appreciated, but hated all the same. I opened the door and exited the car slowly, taking with me my cellphone and keys. When John got out of the car I locked it, pressing my thumb hard on the small button. The little clicker they'd given me was mostly defective, but this time it locked instantly with a flash of yellow lights and a light beeping from the car. I went around the front and on my way to the Yard, I let my hand slip into John's. It felt right, comfortable, and necessary. No matter how tight I squeezed, he did not let go. Despite staring, we kept together as we went to Lestrade's office. I was ready to do this, to finally talk about the past that lingered in my dreams. I just hoped Lestrade was ready to help me.

Upon entering the Inspector's office, he ushered us into comfortable seats in front of his desk. He too noticed our hand arrangement and gave a little surprised look. We split our hands as we sat and the room was silent until Greg spoke.

"So, you're ready to talk?" He said, making absolutely sure I was. I nodded vigorously and he sat forward in waiting.

"When I was seventeen I was...you could say the rebellious child. Sherlock was unbelievably smart and Mycroft was already in a job and making mum and dad proud. Me? I had few talents and those I did, they cared little for. I was smart, but not as smart as Sherlock so it mattered little. So naturally I grew closer to school friends and spent less time at home," I paused, thinking of my childhood. I could barely remember my best friend, if I had one. I shifted in my seat.

"Well, A few of my friends and I were hanging about on our street when this really good-looking older guy...and when I say older I mean maybe a three or four years older than I...walked past us. Us girls of course marveled, but he only seemed to be looking at me. He asked me if I wanted to ride his motorcycle, said his name was Paul, that he played guitar, and I saw from his pocket and hands he smoked cigarettes. I said goodbye to my friends like they were nothing and went with him. As a teenage girl, I was hooked. I followed him like a lost puppy. We walked for about five minutes into the more unsafe part of town. On the upper side we called it 'ghost town' because there really wasn't many people living there and the ones that did would rob you without a second thought. I was weary, but figured Paul would protect me. We rounded a corner and I noted that instead of a motorcycle there was a van. A large van spray-painted white with no windows and no license plate. Seeing that, I was smart enough to know something fishy was going on. He saw that I knew and there was little I could do to stop him then. I tried to escape, but I was small, weak even. He slammed my head against the wall and from there I don't really remember much. All I know was when I woke up I did what I could to get out and I did. I started a fire in the cabin he'd had me in and ran for the hills."

When I finished I looked at both the men. Both of them seemed dumbfounded. John looked sad, even. Lestrade sat back in his chair. John followed.

"So," I said with a big sigh, "Earlier I went out of the flat to grab a bite to eat and an old man came in and gave me flowers from 'A Secret Admirer'. I don't get flowers and no one knows me here. The only time I ever got flowers before was after the funeral of the man who had kidnapped me. I was sent a large bouquet with 'From a Secret Admirer' on it. I know it was him, Greg. I know in my gut he didn't die. He's here and he wants me." I was shaking now and could barely control it. John's hand went to my forearm and it calmed me a bit, but I still felt like a wet cat. What if Lestrade could not find him? What if he got me first? He clearly knew where I was and was not afraid to let me know that. I was scared, not only for me but anyone he would go through to get to me. Mycroft. John. Mrs. Hudson. How could I put them in danger?


	9. Chapter 9

Lestrade looked at me with a serious face. I was beginning to think this was a bad idea. Talking to him was dangerous.

"I'm sorry, I can't say any more," I blurted out, standing. I wanted to leave but John's arm shot up and pulled me back into the chair.

"You need to do this. I won't let anyone hurt you," He said. Lestrafe quietly agreed, still a little new to John and I's 'friendly' nature toward one another. 'It's not me I'm worried about,' I thought, but sat and didn't mention it. A rapping knock sound came from behind me and I turned swiftly to face it. It was a woman, her long brown hair fell to her bottom and wrapped around her wiry frame. I ran a hand through my own recent dye-job and sighed. I hated who I had become. I had promised to move on and yet this one event had encompassed and ruined my entire life. In America had a job I was good at, people who tolerated me and a bed I could fall asleep in. Other than that I was a lonely sack of good-for-nothing.

"Come in?" Lestrade called to her. She walked in, looking at John and I and then the DI.

"Genevieve's called. Says she's got important information about the kidnapping yesterday," She stated to him, looking very proud of herself. She must be an intern. The DI nodded and told her to tell 'ol Genny' he'd call her back. The woman left, shutting the door loudly, and the conversation moved on.

"There was a kidnapping yesterday? Where?" I asked, but Greg was having none of it.

"I apologize, I just..." I gave up and gestured for him to do what he had to.

"How long were you held captive?" This question was one I'd heard so many times and had been answered for me every single time. I don't remember anything except being captured. I can barely remember my escape.

"Six days," I say this with confidence, because that is what everyone has told me. Greg looks incredulous, as does John.

"Jesus, you lost six days?" John questions quietly-to himself mostly-and I nod. He shakes his head.

"What happened to you?" John asked tenderly. I only shrugged. I still don't know.

"The report says I was drugged." The mood in the room was so low, I hadn't figured it could sink any more, but I was wrong.

"Were you..." Lestrade starts, but does not finish. I know where he is going and I answer him.

"Yes. I was sexually abused. It wasn't a ransom kidnapping. We didn't have an abundant amount of money." I felt sick about how I could pass over and forget about the fact that I was raped with ease. I didn't like to feel. Feeling hurt and I didn't like to hurt. Being here- just being in London- hurt. It hurt like the ghost of an amputated limb.


	10. Chapter 10

The room was silent for a long while. Nobody moved or even breathed until I spoke again.

"I'm sorry, I need to go. I'm finished," I said, standing. I didn't want to do it anymore. I may have been a chicken, but it was easier to leave and make it all end. I would go back to America and again start over. It was simple to me, leaving everything behind. No matter what I felt, this new idea felt so much better and safer; it felt right.

"Alright, if you change your mind, you know where to call me," Greg said. John shook Lestrade's hand and thanked him for his time. I didn't even look at him as I opened the glass door and left the office. People watched us again as we left and I could barely contain myself until we got to the car. When I stopped in front of my door, not unlocking it but just standing there, John came back to the driver's side. He was asking me what was wrong, but I couldn't answer. No words came out of my open mouth. What did come out, though, was a cry. A cry for help; an SOS to anyone who heard. I collapsed against the door of the car and John caught me. He let me cry on him and I let myself cry to him. In the rain, though, no one should know you're crying. He held me close as if to hug me away from the world and even though we were both soaked and cold and tired, he let me cry on him. After a few moments, though, my mind cleared and I pulled away from John. What was I doing pulling him into this? I was leaving. I had to leave tomorrow. I could start over; do Witness Protection. How could I lead John on like this, especially since I did have feelings for him. He is the first man I've had feelings for since before I was seventeen.

"Let's go," I whispered, attempting to get in the car. John would not let me, though, and brought my to the passenger side and let me in the car. He then went to the driver's side and climbed in. When he turned on the car I sighed, feeling the blasting heat drying and warming my wet and cold face. I reveled in the thought of changing into warm clothes. As we neared the flat, a man walked out in front of the car and John stopped abruptly. I slammed forward, but luckily my belt only left me with a soon-to-be-bruise instead of my crashing into the windshield.

"Bloody hell!" John growled. The man waved at us and then ran off across the street, nearly being hit by another car on his way. I shook my head. People these days. We pulled up and John shut off the car as I left it. I went fast up the stairs, but John had the key. I wait for him at the top and he smiled as he unlocked the door. What we saw next was something so horrendously unexpected and horrifying, I wanted to puke. Lying in the middle of the kitchen was a girl, lying naked with her throat cut. Around her was a pile of roses and written on the wall with the only blood in the scene was, "Do you miss me?". Reading it, I felt whoozy. He was in the apartment. He came into the place that I was living and could still be there even. John was already phoning Lestrade.

"I think we've found your kidnap victim," He said solemnly. It was a match, too. Young girl, seventeen going on eighteen. Red hair and dead blue-green eyes. Just like I had been. There was a note in her hand, I could see it. I pulled away from John and the door and retrieved it. The crumpled bit of paper was bloody, but still readable.

"My Myra,

I don't like you as a blonde. It makes you look so bland. I remember how special you are. No one else sees you like I do; and see you I do. I miss you, do you miss me?

This girl reminded me of you, I wanted to show you how I remember.

With much love,

Your Secret Admirer"

I did vomit then. I rushed to the bathroom and puked up everything I 'd eaten. It was all over. I couldn't go anywhere he couldn't find me anymore. He would just follow.


	11. Chapter 11

We were moved outside while Lestrade's men worked. They wouldn't find anything, I was sure of it. He was smart; so much smarter than them. I told the yard all those years ago that he survived. No one wanted to believe me. John held me outside Speedy's under the canopy, the rain falling over, but not on us. I watched people collect around the caution tape, which wrapped around my car and attached itself both to Speedy's and the other side of 221B. As people began to notice the two of us, John and I stepped inside. We seated ourselves and relished in the warmth of the dine. I had been shivering outside in the cool rain. The waitress in charge of our small table waddled over, pregnant and ready to pop, and inquired about tea. John nodded vigorously, but I instead ordered a coffee. It was some subconscious part of me reminding me about America, the land of the free. Freedom is all I really wanted...

"Thank you," John said, opening the menu the waitress gave him. We were both quite calm for two people who just witnessed such a gruesome scene. I thought harder about it, though, and realize that that's precisely what makes us so alike. Me being a cop and him having been in the army and then working with Sherlock;our careers and pasts are interconnected in small ways. Though I barely know this man, I could say I definitely say I understand him. We both lost things that we still have not recovered from. Our beverages arrived just as Lestrade and his cohorts came in. He pulled up a chair while his posse stayed behind toward the door.

"That was the girl from the kidnapping case. Did you know her at all?" I fished the note out of my pocket when Greg said this, handing it to him as I added sugar to my coffee. I knew it was the girl. I remembered hearing about it from the intern at the yard. When he finished reading he looked up at me, searching for answers I didn't have. He was after me, sure, but I had no idea where to find him or who he was. The door opened and Mycroft came strolling in, umbrella in hand. We all watched him move cautiously over to our little group. He looked at us each separately, scouring our souls it seemed.

"We have to go," He spoke at us, clearly meaning John and I. I was confused, but John stood and put money on the table, taking my hand.

"Just listen to him," John said. I blinked. What were the two conspiring about?

"No, no, no, Mycroft," Lestrade said, making the tall man stop mind-stride and swivel to face Greg. His brow rose.

"You're not just gonna take her like that and make her disappear into some black bag. This is my case and I need her," Greg spoke angrily. Mycroft only stared and Greg swore under his breath, turning.

"I _apologize_," Mycroft said, leaving everyone baffled. Greg turned fully around when hearing that and they shared a look before Mycroft went to leave again, us in tow.

"Where exactly are we going?" I tried asking, but as soon as we climbed into his black car after him, a black bag found its way over my head and someone bent me forward to tie my hands.

"_REALLY_ Mycroft?" I spouted, infuriated. I heard him sigh and I shook my head.

"It is for your own safety, Myra. You _must_ understand," He said. I struggled against the ziptie, but it was to to avail. I could not free myself.

"Oh, I understand perfectly. I understand that if you don't explain right now, I swear on our mother that I will hurt you," I sputtered.

"Myra, dear, don't make idle threats. It's unbecoming of you," He said as the car began to drive away.

"John?" I said.

"Yes?" He replied.

"What the hell is going on," I asked him, hoping he would give me something; anything.

"I'm sorry. It's to make you safe," He answered. I sighed myself and gave up. I would soon find out, then.

**This is in answer to some questions of Mystrade:**

**HOLY HECK YES I WILL BE!**

**Thanks so much for reading, please leave a review if you liked it!**


	12. Chapter 12

When I finally saw light again, the light was false. The sun had long gone down and the only thing lighting the large room was a warm-looking fireplace. In front of it sat a cozily large armchair.

"Do you know where you are?" A voice behind me asked. I looked around quickly. I may not be Sherlock, but I'm good enough to know that this place was where my brother resided.

"Mycroft's home, I imagine," I said, though I was sure. I didn't want to damage my twin's thought that he was silent and indecipherable in everything that he did. I was sure there wasn't much else he was proud of.

"You are correct," A voice I placed as Mycroft's chimed in from the big blue chair. My brother rose and from his tall silhouette an even taller shadow descended and fell upon me. He strode towards me and looked down at me before looking at the male who was behind me. They shared a look and Mycroft nodded, which must have meant something because in the next second my hands were cut loose. I rubbed my wrist gently and stood from my kneeling position.

"_Necessary precautions_," Mycroft defended with a shrug. I rolled my eyes before taking another quick glance around. The place was quaint, but bare; it felt empty and lonely. He lived well, but it was clear no one ever visited. I sarcastically wondered why to myself.

"Where is John?" I inquired, noting that he was not in the room with us. Mycroft did not speak, but only nodded to a nearby hallway to my right and went back to sit in his big chair and leave my to my devices. I strolled over to and traveled through the dimly lit hallway until cracked open door to my left caught my attention. I rapped my knuckles lightly against the hard wood, hearing it resonate in the silence.

"Come in," John's voice replied to my action. As I did, he was pulling a sweater on.

"Hi," He breathed out, looking solemnly at me. In his eyes I saw an apology, and apology I was not ready to answer. He looked down, realizing I was not yet forgiving him, and I sat on the edge of the large four-poster in the room.

"Why? I need to be doing everything I can," My voice was calmer at first, but as I revealed the elephant in the room it grew more frantic. My eyes were wide and searching. I needed an explanation for this betrayal. I was something unexpected from John, so I imagined Mycroft was the one to paint the idea while John held the canvas. It still hurt, though, despite what I knew.

"I know, but we need to be doing something to make sure you're okay; that you're safe, Myra," He stated in reply. I shook my head, scoffing a bit. Both sided of me were conflicting; the side that held my basic instinct to stay alive and the side that told me I should be finding this man and making him pay for not only what he did to me, but what he did to that girl.  
"How long do I have to stay?" I asked, dreading the answer. John looked pained, which made me feel less than happy to know what he said next.

"Until it all dies down," He said quietly, coming over to me. He put a hand on me and I sighed.

"It's not going to die down, John. He wants me and he wants me dead. He will proceed to kill any girl he thinks looks remotely like me until he gets what he wants, John. It is who he is and no matter how deep you hide me he will find a way to get me out like he already has. I have to help them, John. It's my fault that girl is dead and it will be my fault that anyone in the near future if injured or killed," I said, barely breathing between sentences. My heartbeat had quickened and I uttered a shuddering exhale. I had gone and upset myself. John was closer now, sitting beside me. Soon, his hand was on my face and slowly out faces grew closer until we were no more than a mere centimeter away. There was so much electricity. I knew both of us felt it. When our lips touched, it was not yet a kiss. Sort of like a caress.

"It's not your fault," John whispered against my lips, then moving to place his over them. I couldn't answer and quite frankly I didn't want to. Everything inside of me lit up like a lightbulb. The feelings that I felt were stronger than anything I had ever felt with anyone else. Suddenly, though, it was over. John was standing and staring at something behind me. I whipped my head around to look and blinked several times.

"Sherlock?" John gasped, clearly very upset.

"Hello, John. I see you've met Myra," Sherlock said with a smile. John went to him, but instead of hugging him or saying anything, he landed a punch square on the taller man's jaw. I collapsed from shock, the sight of my previously dead brother too much of an addition to my already hectic and terrifying day.


	13. Chapter 13

When I sleep, I hardly ever dream. Tonight was just one of those nights, though. I saw him, the man, and he was walking down a hall toward me. I rushed forward, but only ended up running into his arms no matter which way I tried to escape. It was a never ending empty hallway. I screamed and screamed until I could no more, though I knew no one would hear me. He produced a knife when finally I gave up on my escape and I awoke as he drew the blade across my throat. When I opened my eyes I looked up into two pairs of eyes looking down at me; light blue of Sherlock's and brown of John's. I sat up, rushing my head past their examining looks.

"Don't watch me like that, I'm not a child," I said, a little more angry than intended. They had both moved to face my back, now, as I pushed my blankets off of my legs. I rose a brow at the shorts and t-shirt that were much different from the jeans and long-sleeve of earlier. Who had changed me? I stood, my toes touching the cold, hard wood floor and sending a shiver up my spine. The room was completely quiet as I tested mt legs out and shivered. I turned then, remembering something from last night.

"You're dead," I said, looking confusedly at Sherlock. I went over to him and touched his face, which he flinched away from. My hands were freezing. I reared my hand and slapped him. Yes, I knew it was a girly hit, but I was weak and even if I wanted to hit him harder I couldn't. He was my brother, after all. No matter what he'd done I was sure there had to be an explanation for it and I would know soon. I walked past him, then, and sneezed. John rushed to me and forced one of his sweaters over my had.

"You'll catch every illness in the book," John muttered, but I figured it was just a way for him to get the thing on me. I shrugged and turned to both of them. Sherlock was staring intently at both of us and fighting the urge to speak. His arms were crossed and he stood in a stance he usually does when he's observing.

"Well, go ahead," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Dyed hair, hiding from something. Not kept up, not worried about it anymore. Scars on your arms, spousal abuse or self-harm. Not John, though a relationship is clear, but you're not as obvious about it as he is. So self-harm; you are lonely, only about ten contacts in your phone, one of them being your psychiatrist, who has you on a regiment for depression. You're fighting feelings, though this is the first time in a long time you've felt any, whether it be from medicine or choice. Something is holding you back. You have somewhere to be, only reason you'd get out of bed so fast. Your slap was weak, you've had a rough couple of days. Your past had come back to haunt you and you're not coping well," He said. I waited for more, but he just blinked.

"You're not as open a book as most, Myra. You've built such a tall wall," He said, frowning a little bit. I wondered how he even managed without people to tell about his deductions.

"So, Mycroft knew you were alive?" John asked Sherlock, still a bit of bitterness in his usually sweet voice. Sherlock shook his head.

"No, I was able to sneak in shortly before you all arrived. I had to say, though, that I was surprised to see you Myra. I thought _you_ were dead," He replied, turning his attention to me. My brows rose. How could he not know I was alive? Did Mycroft not tell him? I left the room, marching back toward where I knew Mycroft was still sitting. I stood in front of him, obstructing his view of the fireplace. He rolled his eyes and sighed before he looked up at me.

"You told Sherlock that I was dead?" I was livid, I couldn't believe him. Sherlock was such a young boy, he didn't need something like that.

"What did you want me to say?" He asked to counter to my question.

"I don't know Mycroft, that I was at school, studying abroad. Maybe the truth, that I'd moved? Not that I was bloody _murdered_!" I yelled at him, my throat hoarse. I hadn't had anything to drink in many many hours.

"Well, he's fine, Myra, what do you want from me?" I scoffed.

"Fine? He's _completely_ fine, Mycroft. Just like you're fine. You can stop blaming yourself for what happened to me. I lived. I am fine. I know it hurt, Mycroft, but you don't have to torture yourself forever because all you've done is wrapped yourself in this blanket of sadness and built walls tall enough and thick enough for no one to get through. You wanna know how I know, because I've built that house. You know what, I'm knocking it down. You need to get out there, be a human Mycroft," I swallowed, watching him. His face was unchanged, but his eyes, however, glistened with tears I doubted would come.

"We're all here now, brother," I whispered as I leaned forward, wrapping my arms around his neck. I expected nothing, so the arm that did come from Mycroft to hug back was a complete surprise. We stayed light that for many long minuted until I finally stood up.

"What now?" John asked, obviously a little out of the loop, but still curious.


	14. Chapter 14

"I'll tell _you_ what we do now," I said, arms crossed in a defiant manner. I looked at Mycroft.

"You are going to tell me exactly how to get back and I will be going back, even if I have to walk," I spoke confidently and stood tall, asserting my authority. I would be having no arguments and if he didn't tell me, I'd go out anyways and find my way there. Everyone in the room was aware of that, though, because they knew that about me. Even as a child, I was stubborn and bossy. I was often the babysitter.

"I'll not be telling you _anything_. If you _can_ get out, you are free to go on your little _quest. _God forbid you let anyone keep you_ safe,_" Mycroft answered, pulling my own hardheadedness on me. We are twins after all. I grinned a very mischievous grin and turned on my heel, heading back to the room from whence I came. I slammed the door shut and basically threw myself onto the bed. It was time for some scheming. Across the hall was John's room and I heard him say goodnight slightly awkwardly and Sherlock reply in his deep voice the same way. Things weren't the same as before, anyone could tell. Their once-great friendship had deteriorated by the fall. I sighed, returning my attention to my own problem before my door suddenly opened.

"John, I-" I started as I looked over, but to my surprised it was not John, but Sherlock standing in my doorway. He closed the door behind him and strode over to my bed.

"Get your things, we are leaving," He said. I blinked, wondering how he'd convinced Mycroft. Then I shunned myself for thinking that. He didn't; he was going to sneak me out. I nodded and pulled on my pants, collecting everything I knew was mine in my jacket pockets. When I was finished, I nodded to Sherlock again and he opened the hallway door. I pointed quietly to the window, but he shook his head and in the next moment I realized why. A beam of light, like that of a flashlight, flashed across the window. Patrols. Did he really have me on lockdown, or was he always this paranoid?

"Come," Sherlock said and he didn't have to tell me again. I walked quietly past him and waited in the hall as he closed the door. He took hold of my arm and led me down the corridor, which turned left into another corridor. We slipped, then, into a room that seemed to be another bedroom, but this was clearly Mycroft's bedroom. The window was already wide open, but there were no lights like my room. I rose a brow. How considerate of Mycroft. I get a patrol, but not him? On second thought, he probably didn't want people watching him. I rolled my eyes and we walked across the room to the window. The breeze that rustled the curtains and brushed across my skin was cool and humid, wet with rain. I smiled. I had missed all the rain, though it had rained quite a bit in New York while I was there. Sherlock went out ahead of me, but I stayed a moment. I heard voices that were not Sherlock and panicked. It was John and Mycroft and they weren't far behind. I suddenly felt rather guilty for leaving John behind, though I know it was a split-second decision on both parts.

"I'm sorry," I whispered and climbed out of the window into the dead of night. I followed Sherlock closely because by watching him I knew he definitely was sure of how to get out of here. He had been able to sneak in, so I had much faith he could retrace his steps back home.

**I apologize for this being so short. :c**


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock and I stopped, only for a moment, to catch a few breaths. I wondered if Mycroft would even search for us, doubting it highly. Suddenly, I heard a pained yelling and my heart stopped. John.

"Myra!" John screamed out Mycroft's window. Mycroft laid a hand on his friend's shoulder and John sighed in defeat. She wasn't coming back; he knew, but did not want to believe it.

"Caring is not an advantage," Mycroft said quietly to John, but the man turned to Mycroft in anger.

"And what would you know of caring?" John asked before storming away to the room he'd been given. Mycroft shuddered at the sound of the wood door slamming shut. He did know about caring. He cares about all of them in a distant sort of way. It was easier that way. When Myra left all he had was himself to blame. She made him promise not to tell mum or dad and he did. He would always keep promises for her because they were twins and he would do anything she asked. So it was his fault that she had been taken. When mum asked where Myra was, Mycroft told them at Sam's. He couldn't have known then the trouble she was in, but still told himself that he could have saved her. For years, then, it was easier to live life alone and in a constant paranoia. If you didn't care about anyone, no one could rip that person from you. Now, though, Mycroft had found someone. Though their relationship was real to Mycroft, the DI still had a difficult time with it. He was afraid. Mycroft pressed the number two on his phone and then dialed. It rang twice before a voice answered.

"Hello?" The voice said.

"Lestrade, Myra has left my protection. She has gone with...Sherlock is alive." There was a long pause, during which Mycroft did not breathe.

"Alright, I'll keep an eye out for them," the DI said, almost about to hang up when he thought better.

"Are you alright, Mycroft?" He asked, his voice kind and soft.

"Yes, I believe I'll be fine," Mycroft replied to his lover.

"Believe? Meet me for coffee," Lestrade said before hanging up. Mycroft knew where; a little cafe not far. He also knew when; immediately. This was new. Lestrade usually wasn't so open. He never really wanted to do things in public. Mycroft's lips curled into the slightest smile as he grabbed his coat and left the room. His umbrella sat alone and abandoned at the end of his bed.

"We should go back," I said, the sound of John's voice affecting me more than it should. Sherlock turned to me, eyes boring into mine.

"We cannot," He said, offering no explanation before he stalked off into the dark ahead. I followed, needing no answer. I needed to save everyone from me. The only way to do that was being under the instruction of a 'dead' genius. Soon, we came to a road, which seemed to be empty at the moment. I went to cross, but Sherlock pulled me back and down to the ground. A car pulled past. There were no lights on, which lead us to assume it was them searching for us. We waited several moments after it had long past to stand and cross the road. In a little inlet branching off from the road was stashed a motorbike. Sherlock put on a helmet and handed me one. I put it on swiftly and very cautiously got on the bike. With a loud noise, the machine started and we were off in the opposite direction of the car. I held tightly to my brother as we traveled, my face buried deep into his coat. I had missed him much, though I knew him little. I now could imagine the pain he had felt when he thought I was dead. It was strange how that worked out. Both thought dead or killed, but both alive. I breathed in his scent and the fresh air around me as I let the sound of the wind and the bike soothe me into calmness.


	16. Chapter 16

I had almost fallen asleep when we jerked to a stop. My helmet clanked against Sherlock's and we both uttered a low groan. I pulled the heavy head-protector off and shook out my helmet-hair before looking around. I had no idea where we were. We were parked in front of a clothing store, deep into the sketchier bit of London. I hopped off and Sherlock followed, gesturing me towards this clothing store with the bright yellow sign. The cashier inside actually seemed excited that we'd come in, grinning like a child on Christmas morning. I assumed it was because he didn't get much business in these parts as Sherlock and I browsed the inventory.

We spent maybe thirty minutes in the changing room before Sherlock opted for a pair of sweatpants and a black tee and I found a comfortable pair of jeans and a long-sleeve blue, v-cut top. We left the clothes on, since the store didn't operate with a tag system. Or at least that's what I was told. Sherlock grabbed me a new coat with a hood and got a pair of sunglasses for the both of us. He threw all of our old laundry into the trash, except his signature coat of course, and we went to the counter to pay. I pulled my wallet out of my new, not as deep pocket. The man behind the counter shook his head vigorously and waved his hands.

"For Mr. Holmes. My friend!" The man exclaimed, still looking glad. I was confused, but made no protest. My brother returned a light smile to the man.

"Thank you," He said before ushering me out of the place. Clearly we were on a schedule and time was of the essence.

Next door was a pharmacy, which I followed Sherlock into. I thanked him for the clothes as we walked through the mechanical sliding glass doors.

"You're welcome," He replied, snatching up a red basket in his long fingers. The bright florescent lights of the pharmacy made my eyes sting slightly after so much time in the dark. I'd finally gotten adjusted and was exhausted, so this was less than pleasant.

"Get some water," Sherlock ordered. I complied with this wish and scooted off to the cooler aisle. Not having a basket, I grabbed as many bottles as I could before it was too much to hold and still close the cooler door. The cold of the bottles burned my skin of my hands and wrists as I searched for my brother. Finally, I found him in the haircare aisle, basketing a box of generic black dye; for me no doubt. I cringed. Black hair was the one color I had refused when I went to America. Black dye made you _look_ like you were hiding something. I dumped the bottles of water into Sherlock's basket and warmed my red hands in the pockets of my new jacket.

"Where will we go?" I inquired, following Sherlock to the counter.

"Somewhere safe," He said to me. I rolled my eyes. Always so mysterious. I guess it runs in the family. On the counter before us was a box of cigarettes. The people here really knew him. Hadn't he quit, though? I thought about his answer, wondering inwardly where I could be safe. I trusted Sherlock, but I also knew the strength and scope of this man who hunted me.


	17. Chapter 17

Back on the motorcycle, I could not rest this time. My mind was aflutter and my blood pumping wildly as my wiry hair lashed across my cheeks. I could not stop imagining John's face, his grin and his frown. I imagined his woolen sweaters and blue jeans. I thought how there has never really been anyone who cared for me as much as my twin brother until I met John. I mulled for a long moment over the though that if Sherlock had never fallen that I would never have had to attend the funeral and would never have met John. I hugged my brother a little closer and I felt him tense underneath my grip.

It wasn't long before we were turning down a driveway. It was a house. No hotel or secret underground hideaway. It was just a simple house with a painted mailbox and petunias growing along the sides of the blacktop. I was confused by this. How did he expect us to stay anonymous here? I licked my lips as he parked the vehicle behind the garage. A light turned on, washing us with its brightness. it was a lot for my eyes after driving through the dark so long and I instinctively shot my hand up to shield them. There was a silhouette in the light, a woman. Sherlock pulled off of the bike, a smile gracing his lips. He stepped up to the woman and gathered her in an embrace as I pulled my own stiff legs away from the vehicle and followed my brother. When I was close enough for light to no longer be blinding me, a face came to the woman. One I had seen before. At the funeral.

"Molly?' I said, an incredulous look crossing my face. She was smiling at me.

"Yes, lovely to actually meet you. I never knew Sherlock had a sister." She said looking at him. His face was the slightest bit solemn.

"I ran away and made everyone believe I was dead. " I said. I didn't want to blame Mycroft anymore. It didn't seem right to me. I had been the stupid one and now everyone was suffering. Molly's expression changed to one of sadness and pain and she looked down. After a moment of absolute quiet, though, she looked up.

"Come in, I've made supper." With that, the three wasted no times entering the Hooper residence.


End file.
